


A Strong and Silent Pride

by sleepyMoritz (Catherss)



Series: Just After the Mid-Century [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, HIV/AIDS, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Queer Culture, sex discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 12:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20115076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherss/pseuds/sleepyMoritz
Summary: By the start of 1982, the disease - previously known as Gay Related Immune Deficiency, or GRID - had a new name. AIDS.This did not stop it from being called the gay plague in the media. This did not stop the rampant homophobia. This did not stop the fear.





	A Strong and Silent Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the beta work [Pogopop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pogopop/pseuds/pogopop)!
> 
> Title from "Pomp and Circumstance" by Elgar, also known as "Rule, Britannia!"

Crowley’s foot was tapping on the linoleum floor. Urgent. Anxious. Annoying.

Aziraphale looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then slid his hand into Crowley’s.

Crowley turned to glance at Aziraphale. Stretched a smile over his face. Withdrew his hand.

“Anthony Crowley?” said the nurse at the door.

“It’s Crowley, Crowley is my first name,” he muttered, but rose anyway, and the two of them followed her into the doctor’s office.

The doctor - a man who Aziraphale felt must be too young to be a practicing GP, but then again, Adam had finished university by this point - greeted them warmly when they entered and invited them to sit down. He was a Soho GP, and despite his young age, he gave off the air that he had seen it all.

“So, we got the results from your blood test back,” the doctor said. “And— oh, are you alright with me discussing your results—?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Alright. So, we went ahead with the tests you asked for,” he said, in the sort of tone that implied that he thought those tests were unnecessary. “You don’t have any sort of immunodeficiency.”

The words were like a weight being shifted off their shoulders. Crowley fell back in his chair, the look of relief on his face raw. He made eye contact with Aziraphale, and grinned.

The doctor was still talking. “In fact, your immune system appears to be very strong and healthy.”

“So why am I sick?” Crowley asked.

“Hemochromatosis,” the doctor said firmly. “It’s a genetic blood disease that shows up in men generally between 30 and 50. A build up in iron in the blood stream. With treatment, all the symptoms you described - tiredness, weight loss, loss of libido, joint pain, memory loss - should go away, or be far more manageable.”

They left the doctor’s office with a paper bag containing Crowley’s prescription and a new, uncertain sense of safety. The day seemed brighter than it had when they’d stepped through the doors of the GP, and they walked in silence for a little while, just taking in the day, and not really wanting to speak until they were somewhere with less people running about.

“Well, I’m glad that’s over with. You know, I told you so,” Aziraphale said once they reached the quiet bus stop. “I said you’d be fine.”

“But you didn’t know that,” Crowley said. “I didn’t know that.”

Aziraphale shot him a look: _This was silly. You were being silly._

Crowley took his arm lightly and pulled them closer together, glancing around for a moment to check no one was watching before settling his gaze back on Aziraphale. “You were not my first, angel, and I could not risk you. Nobody knows how long this— disease takes to manifest. Least of all me. We are all in the dark, here, and I, well.” He laughed bitterly. “I had to at least ask the question.”

Aziraphale nodded, suddenly feeling a little bit overwhelmed by the result; he truly hadn’t expected it to come back positive, but there had still been the nagging little bit of his brain that said - _what if?_

Aziraphale disliked “what if” questions. He preferred to think about things that were a bit more... Tangible. And this, this was tangible. Hemochromatosis. Not exactly ideal, but thank God that it wasn’t AIDS.

Crowley hugged him tightly for a moment. “It’s like I say,” he murmured. “I’m always alright.”

Aziraphale nodded into Crowley’s shoulder, then they pulled apart, and he wanted to kiss him, but he couldn’t, obviously, out of the question, so instead he said, “Let’s get lunch. How about afternoon tea - at the Ritz?”

Crowley‘s grin was toothy and wide. “This is cause for celebration,” he agreed.

* * *

They’d first dined at the Ritz in 1981, which had been their ten year anniversary. That was around eighteen months ago. Aziraphale had always thought it to be a terribly romantic restaurant (what with the Vera Lynn song and all), while Crowley was assured that if that was where Freddie Mercury took his dates, then it probably was a very nice place to go.

The morning after their anniversary was lovely, with Crowley making him breakfast in bed, because Aziraphale had made it yesterday, then having each other slowly, savouringly. They had the Observer on Sunday delivered, and the paper had a story about Gay-Related Immune Deficiency. And Aziraphale felt his stomach drop.

Crowley had taken the paper from him, squinted at it.

They shared a glance. Aziraphale thought, what if?

He hated what-ifs.

* * *

By the start of 1982, though, the disease had a new name: AIDS.

This did not stop it from being called the gay plague in the tabloids - and, sometimes, the broadsheets. The BBC news. On the radio.

This did not stop Crowley from being jeered at in pubs - _don’t let him share a glass, don’t let him touch you, he’s a poof_ \- or from being assaulted in the street. This did not stop Aziraphale from being told that having gay patrons was putting all his other customers at risk - _you can get it through the air, you can get it from doorhandles, you can get it from kisses_ \- and it did not stop the fear.

A lot of people said that it was God’s way of clearing out the perverts.

Aziraphale _despised_ what-ifs.

* * *

Adam was a busy young man. He was a playwright now, a real starving artist type, always coming up with new ideas and smoking in cafés, and probably doing enough drugs to put young Crowley to shame like the bohemian rapscallion he was - not that either of them ever pressed him on that point. He would often spend a night or two at Aziraphale and Crowley’s flat when he was in Soho for business. The rest of the time, he lived in Vauxhall, since it was cheaper, in a tiny flat plastered with music posters, tasteful photography of young men and women _in flagranti_, and notes to himself scrawled on postcard-sized bits of paper.

“Writing’s ace,” Adam would say with a grin, “because you can do it everywhere, even Vauxhall. But that’s also why it’s _awful_.”

Today, though, Adam was in the City for a funeral. His usual cheer was muted, his expression flat. He’d come back in the late evening, clutching his tie in his hand and treading up the stairs with one hand leaning on the wall to push himself away from it.

“Don’t want nothing to eat,” he mumbled, slumped on the sofa miserably, when Aziraphale asked. Crowley was out - gigging - so it was just the two of them.

“You have to.”

“I can go one day,” Adam snapped back. “It’s just one day. And I had lunch, so.”

Aziraphale sighed. Adam and he had a good relationship, most of the time, but Adam was generally resistant to anything that could encroach on the mere idea of being parented from anyone who wasn’t his Dad. Which was funny, in some ways, because he didn’t even really get on with his Dad at all. “Of course,” he said. “How was it?”

“Well, awful,” Adam said. “All my uni mates was there, too.” He sucked in a breath. “Do you ever just look around a room of people and wonder who’ll die first? Might be tomorrow, might be in a month, might be in a year, but _someone_ has to. Or maybe it’ll be you. I can’t decide if that’s better or worse. Seeing everyone die or dying yourself so you don’t have to watch it happen.”

“Adam…” Aziraphale said softly. “You shouldn’t think about things like that.”

“But that’s the way it’s going, isn’t it? You know there’s a thousand deaths in America already. And that’s just the ones they know about.”

Aziraphale just looked at Adam for a moment, trying to decode what it was, exactly, that would help. “Be safe,” was what he settled on. “And you’ll be fine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Adam choked, standing as he gestured wildly. “You can be safe and die or unsafe and die but if you do it at all, you’ll die, and even if I’m safe, my friends—” Aziraphale wrapped Adam tightly in his arms, felt him hiccup and shudder and whisper, “They’re dying anyway, they’re _dying_. Who’s going to be left?”

“Me,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I am going to live forever. So is Crowley. And you’ll always have us.”

Adam laughed thickly, sniffed, and clung onto Aziraphale for a long time.

Eventually, Aziraphale said, “Let me make you a cocoa.”

He bustled around doing that for a while, as Adam sat at the kitchen table, red-faced and bleary. While the milk was put on, Aziraphale went into the bedroom, and dug out from the drawers a small box, which contained within it along other things a handful of strips of condoms Crowley had been given by a queen in a club, with the intention that he distributed them to the crowd. Unfortunately, Crowley had been absolutely trolleyed by that point, and instead wandered home with a fistful of condoms. The two of them never actually used any sort of protection with each other, except once out of curiosity with lambskins; when they had started having sex, doing it safely wasn’t even a part of the conversation. Times really had changed. Aziraphale brought them through to the kitchen, trying hard to be the mature, responsible adult that could talk to youngsters about all of that.

“Now, these say they’re still in date...”

“Oh, Aziraphale,” Adam said, immediately mortified. “I... I already have some.”

“You can never have too many, there’s a good lad,” Aziraphale said with a wise tone that made Adam smile in spite of himself. “Give then to your friends if you really don’t need them.”

Adam nodded, blushing furiously.

Aziraphale finished making them both up a cocoa, and said, as he sat down, “So are you seeing anyone?”

“Not really,” he said. He lifted up his mug. “Cheers, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. Why not, may I ask?”

“I’m just... really scared,” Adam croaked after a moment’s pause. “What if I’m already...?”

“Do you feel sick?” he asked, alarmed.

“No, but neither did Gideon, until he was dying. He said he hadn’t... y’know... in a year, or more, before he died. And his parents wouldn’t see him - my parents already only tolerate me, but if I got this, I’d never see them again.”

“Gideon didn’t have anyone to visit him in hospital?”

“Well, not his family, no.” Adam picked at his thumbnails. “His friends did... I almost didn’t.”

Aziraphale ran his forefinger down the hot mug. He didn’t need to ask why. “What made you change your mind?”

“I thought that I’d feel awful if no one visited me,” Adam said. “And I thought, this is the story at the moment, isn’t it? This is what’s happening. I can’t just bury my head. We can’t do nothing about the cure or science, but we can do little things, and they count, y’know. They do.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said absently. “We can.”

* * *

“I gave Adam condoms today,” Aziraphale said. He was flushed and drunk and soft-looking next to the lamp, and it was the first words either of them had spoken in nigh on five minutes. When they first got to know each other, Crowley realised very early on that Aziraphale didn’t like prolonged silences. Later, he realised that it stemmed from a tactic of his parents to freeze him out when he did something they perceived to be wrong. Crowley similarly didn’t do particularly well with angry arguments.

“Oh, right.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said. “Am not sure I did the right thing.”

Crowley topped up his own glass. “Oh, right?”

Aziraphale pondered for another moment longer, his finger trailing on the stem of his wine glass, then said, slightly awkwardly, “Well, it’s sex that spreads AIDS, and by giving him... well, tools, for lack of a better word, am I not just encouraging it...?”

“If he’s gonna do it, best he do it safely. Want a top up?”

“Thank you, love.” Aziraphale held out his glass for Crowley to pour more wine into it. “He’s terrified, you know. I doubt he’ll be going around to the baths anytime soon.”

“Adam went to a bathhouse?” Crowley said, shocked.

“Well, I don’t know. He’s a handsome young man! I don’t know! Maybe he did.”

“I’m not sure we should be talking about Adam... going to the baths. Actually, more importantly, I don’t want to talk about his sex life. Should you even be telling me this?”

“The point - I wasn’t going on about bathouses, Crowley, that was just an example - the point isn’t the sex, the point is that he’s _scared_.”

“Scared of sex?”

“Of— _life_!” Aziraphale stressed. “He’s scared of relationships. He’s scared of the public backlash.”

“Oh, you’re always scared, when you’re young.” _Or older_, Crowley added mentally. Always at least a little bit scared, _generally_, might be a better way to put it, but so much of yourself, but of what might happen if you were outed to the wrong person.

“He’s not that young, Crowley, he’s twenty-one.”

“Yeah, and how old were you when you got over it?”

Aziraphale glared at him. He didn’t dignify that with an answer, but the answer was, of course, twenty-two.

“You’re talking about something else,” Aziraphale slurred accusatorily.

“I’m talking about Adam,” Crowley said.

“No, I’m talking about AIDS, and you’re talking about being gay.”

“Oh.”

“Adam had, as much as you can, anyway, sorted out his feelings on being gay by the time he was leaving for university, I think,” Azriaphale said, rushing, his head stumbling through the alcohol to get to the words. “He seemed terrified when I spoke to him today, and, maybe, hopeless, because I think he wonders if he’s already got it. I know I would. You did! And you’re you! Could you imagine how petrifying it would have been had we been born ten or fifteen years later? What we might’ve thought?”

Crowley waved his wine glass generally. “The kids these days are mental.”

“Our lot were mental too,” Aziraphale reminded him. “Still are.”

“You never went partying,” Crowley said. “And you _really_ don’t now.”

“I did sometimes,” Azriaphale huffed.

“Yeah, not like them now,” Crowley said. “You get them talking, some of them act like they’re time bombs more than anything else. Completely reckless, given, well, _it_. It’s just this massive group of young men, and if they’re not doing an Adam, they’re partying themselves to death. They’re the future of the community, or whatever, the legacy, and they’re off their fucking heads.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes,” he said softly, catching Crowley’s eye just to smile sadly. “It’s really rather enough to make you despair, isn’t it?”

A sudden heavy silence came over the two of them. The clock ticked on the wall. The fridge hummed. Traffic rumbled along, ever-present.

“I’ve been thinking about God, too,” Aziraphale said apropos of nothing, staring pensively into his glass of wine. “And I’ve decided I hope He isn’t real, because if He is, this really would be the step too far.”

Aziraphale was, in the vaguest and most hand-wavy way possible, Christian. Crowley was more agnostic - it wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God, it was just that he had no faith in Him. They did not often talk about religion, because it was something of a sore spot for them, given their family histories. Most of what could be said had already been thoroughly talked and yelled and cried about.

“I hope He is,” Crowley said. “So I can give Him an earful.”

Aziraphale laughed, thought about it for a moment, then laughed again. “Yes, yes, you would, wouldn’t you?”

Crowley just grinned at him, but the mood hadn’t lightened at all. “Why have you been thinking about this again now? It’s been a long time since you’ve been thinking about God‘s opinion of things.”

“I suppose because of the idea of inevitability. Because of what people have been saying.”

“Oh, Aziraphale, you honestly can’t believe that this is some sort of devine punishment for gay—”

“Why not?”

Aziraphale’s gaze had hardened, and he looked a bit far away, which was a scary look on someone like him.

“‘Cos,” Crowley said firmly. “It’s bollocks.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Are you... feeling okay?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale carefully put his wine glass down and shook his head.

“What do you need?”

“For this to be over,” Aziraphale said, his voice on the precipice of cracking. “To be honest, my dear, I can’t get it out of my head that - maybe, just maybe, my parents were right.” He barked an uncharacteristically bitter laugh. “Is there anything worse than your parents being right?”

“Your parents,” Crowley said, standing a little unevenly and sauntering to the record player, “were right about very few things. For example. They were wrong about you, and about me, and about life, and our… what’s the word? _Lifestyles_.” He flipped through his records until he found the one he wanted. Gently, being careful not to touch the actual disc, only the inner and outer rim, he dropped it onto the mat, got it spinning, and squinted to put the needle where he wanted it. “And, most importantly, they were wrong about Queen.”

_Play the Game_ whined in through the speakers, crashing into soft vocals that filled their little living room warmly.

“My parents probably haven’t even heard of Queen.”

“That’s just how wrong they are,” Crowley said. Now, with a little bit of music on in the background, the air was thinner and easier to swallow. He padded over to where Aizraphale was sitting. “Aizraphale, I am going to say this, and you’re going to listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“No, really listen. Really, _really_.”

“I _am_ listening, my dear.”

Crowley leaned over him, hands planted on either arm rest, and looked intensely into his blue eyes. Aziraphale was alert and curious. “Sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“I love you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, in a tone of voice that usually carried on to say something like, _that’s it?_ “I already knew that.”

Crowley had to contain laughter at that - drunk Aziraphale was something else - and powered on. “And nothing bad is going to happen to you, to us, to me. Cross my heart,” Crowley said wryly, doing the motion over his chest, hoping to pull a smile from him, “and hope to die.”

“This isn’t funny,” Aziraphale said, but he was smiling a little bit. Success.

“I’m being serious, angel. Deadly serious, even—”

“Oh, shut up,” Aziraphale sighed bemusedly. He ran his hands up Crowley’s arms, the motion absent-minded. “I feel like we should be doing... something.”

“Us? Why us?”

“Because we can. You’re in a good position. So am I - I have the free time.”

“What, you’re going to go round all the little queens and give out condoms?“

Aziraphale looked at Crowley meaningfully. “No, but you could.”

Crowley, at last, pushed away from the armchair. “I could. Should, even. But what about you - will you do?”

* * *

Anathema pulled the key out from under the mat, and unlocked the door. “Hello? Caleb? It’s me, Anathema. I brought along a friend today, if that’s alright?”

“Upstairs,” said a thin voice.

Aziraphale swallowed and trailed after Anathema, who went without hesitation to the bedroom in the small house. Inside, it was dark and stuffy, and a thin young man sat cross-legged in his PJs, a watercolour set and large drawing pad on his duvet. On his bedside tablet was a collection of glasses. Some of the glasses had paint brushes sprouting from them.

“Hiya,” Anathema said. “God, aren’t you warm up here?”

“It’s nice,” Caleb said. His eyes went to Aziraphale. “Who’s this?”

“This is the owner of that bookshop on Greek Street, you know which one,” Anathema said. She opened the curtains. The room was messy, with clothes strewn about on the floor, and could probably do with a hoover. “He’s brought some reading material for you.”

Aziraphale suddenly remembered himself and his manners, and thrust his hand out. “Aziraphale. Nice to meet you.”

Caleb chuckled as he shook Aziraphale’s hand, which launched him into a series of brutal sounding coughs that he directed into a handkerchief. Anathema grabbed one of the cleaner looking glasses from the side, bolted out the door, and returned quickly with water. Caleb took it thankfully and, after having gotten his breathing settled, wheezed, “Sorry the place is such a pigsty. Looks like a bomb’s gone off, eh?”

Now that he had spoken more, Aziraphale could identify a slight Scottish accent. He’d clearly been in England a very long time.

“A little,” Anathema said wryly, otherwise completely unbothered.

“I brought some, ah, light reading—” Aziraphale said, holding out the collection of gay pulp novels, some of the less pornographic in his collection. He supposed that gay stories would appeal broadly to, well, gay men. They had been well-read by the previous owner (and by Aziraphale), so they were a little battered, dog-eared and cracked at the spine. It seemed that nowadays most pulp fiction was smut, but these were a good fifteen years old. “I have more at home, so once you’re done with these, I can swap them out.”

Caleb took them with an interested eye. “Oh, I’ve not read these before,” he said. “I wish they didn’t have to give themselves such stupid names. ‘Rod Hardman’. What’s that about?”

“Anonymity drives a hard bargain,” Anathema said, then seemed to realise the innuendo a moment too late, and snorted at Caleb’s grin. “Oh, shut up, you. How about we get you a bath while Aziraphale changes the sheets?”

“... Actually, I’d rather you changed the sheets,” Caleb said, a little stiffly, his smile abruptly faded.

Anathema looked a little taken aback, but agreed with grace. “If that’s alright with you, Aziraphale?”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale helped him to the small bathroom, which, to be honest, could also do with a clean. He was beginning to recognise more solidly how vital house calls like this must be; living alone with an illness like this would be terrible. He ran the bath as Caleb sat on the toilet seat and plucked at the buttons on his PJ top with shaking hands.

“Thank you,” Calab said quietly. “Anathema’s been a friend for a good while, and I don’t want her to see how skinny I am these days. It’d be enough to set her off.” He grinned wryly. “Sometimes it’s easier to be in a state with strangers than with friends.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said. “How did you meet Anathema?”

“Oh, friends of friends. It’s a small gay world.”

Aziraphale smiled wryly, taking off his blazer and rolling up his sleeves so not to get them wet. “You’re right in that. And very incestuous.”

Caleb snorted, which set off more coughs. He waved away a hand, but accepted the glass of water Aziraphale retrieved from the bedroom. Once they’d subsisted, and Caleb made a joke about sounding more and more like his father even without the chain smoking, Aziraphale helped him into the tub. His breathing, amplified by the tiled room, was thin and strained.

Aziraphale tried not to look - he really did - but Caleb’s body incredibly thin and covered in bruises. He hadn’t seen anything like it, asides from pictures of famine victims, and seeing such a thin body in person was shocking. Caleb caught a glance, and raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale began.

“I know how I look,” Caleb said, in a way that was probably supposed to be dismissive but just made Aziraphale sad. “I used to be a rugby player, you know that? I was a big lad.”

Aziraphale grabbed the jug on the side, dipped it in the warm water, and wet his hair first. Rivulets ran down the bumps of his spine and ribs. “How long have you...?”

“Years, probably,” he said. “I knew I was getting ill, mind, but didn’t go to the doctor’s until a month ago. I already knew. It was more a formality at that point. Not like they can do anything.”

“And you don’t want hospital care?”

“Not until I can’t avoid it. Apparently half the nurses won’t even touch you.”

“They can be, well, hesitant, yes.” Aziraphale began rubbing shampoo into his short, brown curly hair. “What about your family?”

Caleb made an explosion gesture with his hands, a short-lived smile making his eyes crinkle as he glanced at Aziraphale. He had green eyes, Aziraphale noticed. “Poof! Gone.” Then, he grinned mischievously. “You wanna know what the worst bit of having AIDS is?”

He shrugged: _Go on._

“Trying to convince your parents you’re Haitian.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think I’ve heard that one before.”

“Dying, and you won’t even pretend my jokes are original,” Caleb scoffed, the smile on his face giving him away. “What’s a man gotta do these days?”

Aziraphale finished most of the cleaning before Caleb said he’d like to soak for a while, so he left him to it, joining Anathema downstairs. She’d started cooking something with a cream sauce by the looks of it. Carbonara.

“I put the laundry on,” she said as she sliced some bacon. “I’ll probably do run to the store before I go. Thanks for helping out.”

“My pleasure,” Aziraphale said, leaning against the free counter. “I just wish I could do more.”

“Caleb’s stubborn,” Anathema said. “He won’t take help until he needs it. And this is the most help he’ll accept for now. Though, after dinner, I’ll do a proper clean of the plates and cutlery. I think some of those glasses upstairs have new lifeforms in them.”

After doing a few little bits of cleaning here and there, Aziraphale went back upstairs to help Caleb dry and dress, and then they all went downstairs to eat dinner. Anathema had made enough to feed a small army, so Caleb could pick at the leftovers over the next few days. After tea, he was much more tired and in a quieter mood than he had been when they’d arrived.

“I think I’m gonna get some sleep,” Caleb mumbled.

“We’ll do some more tidying and then leave you to it,” Anathema said.

“No, just, just wait. ‘Ziraphale, could you read one of those books to me? Not sure I can keep my eyes open.”

Anathema cleared the table while they went back upstairs, and Caleb crawled readily into bed. Aziraphale hadn’t read to anyone since those days where he used to read to Crowley in his bedroom, trying somewhat half-heartedly to make him more interested in literature. He was a little out of practice, but, like riding a bike, the ability to read aloud well never left you. When he did blunder, Caleb didn’t comment; as time went on, his breathing got more and more even until it was indisputable that he had fallen asleep.

But, when Aziraphale stopped reading and closed the book, his eyes blinked open sluggishly and grunted. “Ah, sorry. You’ve a fab reading voice.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, pretty pleased with himself. “Go to sleep, my dear boy.”

“‘_My dear boy_’,” Caleb repeated, grinning a little. “I like that. You single? No, actually, don’t answer that. I like the mystery. Hey, Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“You seem like a man of literature. Did you ever read Lolita?”

“Ah, hm. A while ago, when I was in university. I wrote an essay about it, actually.”

“Do you remember the bit that goes: _Lo-lee-ta. Lo. Lee. Ta._ How the sound feels in his mouth. His tongue going from his palete to his teeth.”

Aziraphale thought for a moment. Generally speaking, he had a fantastic memory for quotes, and tended to memorise poems and soliloquies the same way Crowley memorised lyrics and chords. It was very helpful for his exams, and probably the only reason he got a first. “I think so. Yes, yes, I do.”

“Your name. _Ah-zee-ra-fell_. It goes forwards, up the throat, through the mouth.” Caleb’s eyes met his, and then slid away. “That’s a name that goes up and doesn’t come back down.”

“I’ve… never noticed that before,” he said, frowning.

Caleb said, “You be safe, now.”

And Aziraphale understood. “I will.”

“Collect the books once I’m done with them, aye?”

“Of course.”

Aizraphale headed back downstairs. Incidentally, he never saw Caleb again; he was taken to the hospital shortly after that. By the time he knew about it, Caleb’s funeral was being arranged.

Aizraphale leant out almost all of his collection to sick young men as he did house calls. Anathema knew people who knew people who knew people; there were always more who needed help. Though there had been something of a separatist notion between gays and lesbians until recently, but now, the women were truly picking up an incredible amount of slack, going from their day jobs straight to their friend’s houses to clean, cook, bathe, even the men who could be catty and bitter and difficult.

People Aziraphale and Crowley knew also started fading away, or disappearing. Soho was the gay centre, and the flower shop closed suddenly, the players stopped putting on performances, the singers didn’t show up to the open mic nights, and the pubs - though still fantastically lively - were shortstaffed.

Eventually, all the books would make their slow way back to him.

* * *

Crowley saw Joseph throw his headset down on the desk and stalk out of the call centre, fumbling with his fags.

He looked around. It was a quiet day at the HIV/AIDS helpline he volunteered at, fielding questions from scared callers. Since he didn’t have a day job - and was also healthy, unlike many of the people who helped out - he ended up spending a lot of time there. He would’ve gone out with Aziraphale to be in the trenches with it, but he knew he’d be no good at it. Weak stomach, for starters. Likewise, Aziraphale would probably combust if he had to explain in detail how to use a condom.

His cigs were on the side, so he grabbed them and followed Joseph, not really sure what to expect, but sure on some level that something wasn’t right with him.

“Alright, mate?” Crowley asked when he got onto the street.

“Yeah, alright.” Joseph cupped his hands to the cigarette dangling from his mouth, the tiny flame in his hands making his dark skin glow. “You gonna tell me not to?”

“What? Not to smoke?” Crowley asked. Joseph nodded. He had AIDS, but was still in the fairly early stages of the disease, dead in the middle of the indefinite period between the first sickness and the final one. Not that it made any difference that he got a diagnosis early - there still wasn’t a cure on the markets. “No. That’s gotta be one of those human rights they’re always going on about.”

Joseph laughed. “Need a light?”

“Cheers,” Crowley said, taking the lighter off him and fumbling to get a fag out from the pack. Once he had it lit, he handed the BIC back to Joseph, who took a long drag and then stared at his cig disgustedly.

“Really should stop, mind. It ain’t good for you,” he mumbled, smoke pouring from his mouth.

“Nothing fun ever is.”

“Is this fun?” Joseph asked. Crowley waved a hand at him with a dismissive shrug. He’d been smoking since he was fifteen, so it wasn’t really a question of fun. Aziraphale had admitted that he used to hate it when they first met, but now whenever he smelled cigarette smoke, it made him think of Crowley, and was just a part of his makeup of scents by this point. “Yeah. It’s nice, though.”

“Yeah.”

They stood in silence for a little while, sucking at their fags and blowing the smoke into the wind. It was dusk, and the light had a pinkish quality to it that made everything look rose-tinted in a way it shouldn’t be. Seemed like sunset was getting earlier and earlier now. Crowley didn’t often make a point to examine the sunset - they happened every day, of course - but today’s was particularly spectacular, with a ruddy hue backdropping swirls of thin, pale clouds. The reflection of the burning sky on the windows of the tall terrace offices made it look at first glance like the buildings were on fire.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Crowley asked quietly.

Joseph flicked his thumb against the butt end of his cig and then crossed his arms, looking up to the sky rather than meet Crowley’s eyes. “I feel… tired.” He sniffed and took another drag. “Feels like there’s not gonna be anyone left to fight. I reckon, if this hadn’t happened, we would’ve got our marriage rights in the next ten years or sommet like that.”

“Really?” Crowley said doubtfully. “I don’t know about that.”

“I think so,” Joseph insisted. “There was enough angry buggers fighting for it, at any rate, and now what? If we start to get as bad as America, we’ve got no fuckin’ hope. And it’s already shite.”

Crowley didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I don’t think the Tories would let that happen. Marriage, I mean. What with all their family values talks.”

“Oh, fuck my life, if Maggie fuckin’ Thatcher gets voted in again. No - only another two years of this, or however long to the next General Election, then Labour government next. Lib Dem if we’re unlucky.”

Crowley had to shrug at that. He voted (reluctantly, being pushed along by Aziraphale who insisted it was their duty as citizens) but didn’t keep track of it much outside General Elections. Important stuff usually got filtered down his way eventually. “I don’t follow politics as much as I should.”

“Yeah, right, privileged fucker,” Joseph said jokingly. Crowley snorted. “You’ve got a husband, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, fingers crossed that there’s no falling out and no unfaithfulness or nowt, youse is never gonna get AIDS, and youse have your money like the middle class homos you are--” Crowley snorted at that. “--so you’re in a great place to do some real fighting.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, laughing softly to himself. “I don’t think you could get him out picketing the streets or whatever. He’s, well, between you and me, a bit soft.”

“Yeah? What about you?”

He turned to Joseph, squinting. “Are you trying to recruit me?”

Joseph laughed brightly, showing off crooked teeth. “Yeah, you got me. How free are your Wednesday nights?”

“Fairly. Why?”

“Gay Liberation Front. You should get involved. Come with me to a meeting.”

Crowley dropped his cigarette butt on the pavement and ground it out with his shoe. “I don’t know…”

Joseph knocked his elbow with his. “What? Happy with your rights, are you?”

“It’s not that,” Crowley said. God, was he aware that there was more to fight for. It might not be illegal for him to have sex _strictly speaking_, but it was if someone else was in the house; if someone else asides just the one partner was present; if he had been younger than 21. The age of consent was 16 for everyone else, and gay people were still being arrested for the terrible, awful crime of sex. Not to mention since the AIDS crisis began, public homophobia had skyrocketed, so there was more to do in the court of public opinion, too. “I just don’t know what _I_ can do.”

“Just come,” Joseph said, stubbing out his fag on the wall and dropping it into a nearby bin. “I’ll even pick you up.”

Crowley side-eyed him with a slight smile. “What, in your little Honda?”

“Better than a café racer,” Joseph shot back with a grin. “What year is it again? Here I was thinking it was 1985, but I’m thinking maybe not, ‘cos I see your bike and I’m like, fuck, have I fuckin’ time travelled?”

“Shut up,” Crowley said with a laugh, turning away to go back into the call centre. “It’s stylish.”

Joseph scoffed and followed him in. “I’m being serious. How old is that thing? Mid fifties? What sort of voodoo shit are you pulling to get that thing to work, pally?”

“Sheer force of will, actually.”

“Oh, aye?”

They went back upstairs to the call centre, bickering all the way. Crowley really liked Joseph, and he really hoped that Joseph would be able to eke it out until they found a cure.

* * *

Crowley burst into their bedroom with a look in his eye far too angry for 8AM on a Saturday.

“Look at this load of bollocks,” he spat, and threw an opened envelope and leaflet onto Aziraphale’s lap. He put down the book and read the text on the envelope first.

> _ **Government information about AIDS.** _
> 
> _This leaflet is being sent to every household_
> 
> _in the country to inform everyone about_
> 
> _AIDS, in order to help stop the spread of this_
> 
> _serious disease. It deals with matters_
> 
> _of health and sex in ways that may be disturbing._
> 
> _Please make sure that everyone in your _
> 
> _household who may need this information_
> 
> _sees this leaflet._

Aziraphale looked up to Crowley, who still had a furious expression on his face. He gestured to the leaflet.

The leaflet had on it, in big block white letters on a black background,

** AIDS **  
**DON’T DIE**  
**OF**  
**IGNORANCE**

He flipped it open, but before he could read any of it, Crowley cut in. “Six years,” he spat. “The gay community has known about this for _six years_. We’ve known that it’s spread by sex for-- what, five? Four? And now - _now_, there’s almost a thousand infected at _least_, and they send this round. Don’t die of ignorance? God!”

“Hang on-- what does the leaflet say?”

“All the stuff we’ve already known. Use condoms, don’t share needles, have one safe partner. It's not _that_, though, it’s that they’ve taken so long to do it.”

“At least they’re sending it now,” Aziraphale said weakly, but he too was angry, in the cold way he got sometimes.

“They should’ve been sending these round years ago,” Crowley snarled. “It’s an epidemic and no one gives a shit because it’s mostly us or other people they don’t care about who are dying. And, _and_, they’re sending this round while they’re also trying to get that law on discussing homosexuality passed. So you tell the kids not to ‘die of ignorance’, and then what? Never teach them how to have safe sex?”

“Stop yelling,” Aziraphale said firmly. “You’re not angry at _me_, so don’t take it out on me, either.”

Crowley was a ball of rage at this point, but he swallowed, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Sorry,” he sighed.

Aziraphale got up and took his hand gently. It was shaking. “That bill won’t get passed, and this leaflet will save lives.”

“Oh, come off it,” Crowley said, pulling away. “Don’t you think it’s too little, too late?”

“They did do campaigns earlier,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“_Ineffectual_ campaigns. Just look at all the good they did,” Crowley said sarcastically. “They wouldn’t be doing this one if the others had worked.”

Aziraphale just looked at him for a long moment, because Crowley suddenly looked a lot more scared than he did angry, but situations like this were hard to resolve. There wasn’t anything he could say to make the situation better. There wasn’t anything either of them could really do, either.

“I think it’s a start,” Aziraphale said.

“There’s such a long way to go.”

“And, like you said to me, all those years ago--”

“Slow progress is still progress,” Crowely finished quietly. He looked down at Aziraphale’s hand and took it and squeezed it tightly, the black of his nail polish harsh against their pale skin. “The fight continues.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “The fight continues.”

**Author's Note:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> It was really difficult to find concrete and in-depth information on the reactions of the gay community in the UK to the AIDS crisis, so a fair amount information came from the Terrence Higgins Trust (the real name of the charity Crowley worked for, and who also did a lot of the house calls Aziraphale does here), and I kind of... inferred from there, especially with the incredibly devastating affects AIDS had in the US. The THT still exists and does great work.
> 
> I don't know if the Section 28 bill was in the news at the same time as the Don't Die of Ignorance campaign, but it lined up more or less. Section 28 did pass, by the way, one year after Crowley and Aziraphale's discussion on it, and it wasn't repealed until 2003. The full decriminalisation on gay sex acts did not end until 2013; between 1967 (when gay sex between two men above 21 was decriminalised) and 2013, some 15,000 men were arrested on charges related to this legislation. There was also no law to protect LGBTQ people from losing their jobs, homes, etc, until the 2010 Equality Act.
> 
> Lastly, because I doubt I'll write anything in this universe set in the 90s: when Freddie Mercury died in 1991 (only five years after the final scene in this fic), Crowley cried like a baby and refused to go outside for two days, which he spent sleeping, eating junk food, and replaying all his Queen records.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it. My tumblr at [sleepymoritz](https://sleepymoritz.tumblr.com/post/186779841651/a-strong-and-silent-pride-sleepymoritz); feel free to leave me a comment or send me a message over there.


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